


imagine how the world could be so very fine

by wearealltalesintheend



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Humor, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, M/M, One Shot Collection, Reunions, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, except pennywise that is, or as I like to call it, that bitch is dead - Freeform, the best timeline au, there's no order to this i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-11-22 17:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20877632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearealltalesintheend/pseuds/wearealltalesintheend
Summary: “You must be wondering,” Mike says over the chatter in the restaurant and everyone falls quiet, looking at him with unashamed fear. Since the phone call, most of the memories are slowly coming back and Richie can’t say he likes where this is going, “why I called you all back here.”Mike pauses, lets it hang in the air, the drama queen.“It’s been 28 years,” he points out, “IT’s not coming back.”*or, Pennywise died in 1989 but not before stealing their memories; 28 years later, Mike's calls go a little differently.





	1. Richie POV

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so, this is me giving the gays the happy endings we deserve, because fuck this movie for making me bawl my eyes out in the theater while watching a horror flick.
> 
> And in any case, I think we all deserve some fix-it fics.

“You must be wondering,” Mike says over the chatter in the restaurant and everyone falls quiet, looking at him with unashamed fear. Since the phone call, most of the memories are slowly coming back and Richie can’t say he likes where this is going, “why I called you all back here.” 

Mike pauses, lets it hang in the air, the drama queen.

“It’s been 28 years,” he points out, “IT’s not coming back.”

The whole room seems to exhale. Richie sags in his own chair, watches as the others all go through visible stages of relief; there’s still so much shit they don’t remember about that summer, about that fucking clown, but just hearing it’s not coming back is enough to lift a weight they didn’t even know was on their shoulders.

_“Pennywise,” _Bev whispers, then looks around the table, grins, “IT’s really dead, then?”

“I gave it a whole year just to be sure,” Mike nods, and _shit_, right, when everyone left, Mike stayed. That’s. Richie can’t imagine living in this town for another 30 years, especially with IT looming like a dark cloud over his head. “But there’s been nothing, it’s all quiet– that year, we did it, we killed IT.”

Saying it aloud is like breaking a spell, like that finally makes it true– there’s no more clown, that thing is dead, they can _breathe_, and Bill insists on toasting to that, to Mike, and Ben insists on paying them all another round, and Stan is trying not to choke on his laughter, and for the first time since, _fuck_, ever, probably, Richie thinks something is perfect.

He catches Eddie’s eyes and they share a grin, and Richie wonders how he could forget that. How can anyone forget Eddie? His chest feels tight and warm, and his heart tries to climb up his ribcage every time Eddie falls against his side laughing– Richie feels thirteen again and in love with his best friend.

The fortune cookies come soon after, a neat pile they dig into with the giddiness of actual thirteen years old about to make fun of the corny phrases. That kinda shit never goes away, he thinks, but maybe that’s just Richie.

_The love of your life is right in front of your eyes_, says his and no shit, Sherlock, Richie could have told them that. Although Eddie is at his right, so he would say love is more like, at his periphery? But hey, semantics, right?

“Hey, what did you get?” asks Bev at his other side, grinning like she must have read it over his shoulder and knows very well what was written and what went through his head. They really didn’t give her enough credit for being a little shit.

“Some follow your dreams crap,” he replies easily, waggles his eyebrows at her, “what did _you _get?”

_“To be found, stop hiding,”_ she shrugs, crumpling the paper then thinking better of it, refolding it into half. “Solid advice, I give it a 7 for the cryptic vibes.”

The thing about small towns is that after they all pay the check, say their goodbyes, and drive off in separate rental cars, they all end up in the same inn because it’s the only inn in town that gives less _someone got murdered in this room _vibes.

That’s not to say, of course, that someone didn’t get murdered in those rooms, because with this town, you never know.

In any case, they all snort and roll their eyes and go upstairs to sleep for like a week, except for Richie, still too keyed up to turn in, and for Eddie, who finds him behind the bar, rummaging for something that doesn’t look like it might leave him blind.

“You’re not using that thing to open the wine,” is what Eddie decides to start with as he sits in one of the stools, and he’s talking about the disgustingly rusty corkscrew Richie found under the counter, and it’s such an Eddie thing to say, Richie nearly drops the bottle, “it’s just asking to get tetanus _at least.”_

Richie gives him a look and holds up the corkscrew. “You mean this?”

_“Richie,”_ Eddie warns.

“What,” Richie rolls his eyes, pretend he’s not enjoying Eddie’s eyes on him, “unclench, Eds, there’s alcohol here, right? So it all probably cancels out.”

Eddie makes a face, shakes his head. “Jesus,” he mumbles, “I can’t believe this shit.”

“Here, here,” Richie pushes a glass to him, watches him immediately knock it back. There’s no one else in the hotel, all their friends are probably passed out by now, and the city is a lot quieter than Richie remembered. If he had been waiting for the time to be fucking brave or whatever, this is it. Here Eddie is, pouring himself more wine, and here Richie is, and it’s been 28 years but there’s no one like Eddie, no one Richie knows how to love like Eddie.

_To be found, stop hiding, _says a voice in his head that sounds annoyingly like Bev– Beverly who agreed to fucking dance with him freshman year and stayed rehearsing in school until near sundown because neither of them knew how to fucking dance and asked Richie if he was in love with Eddie _not because it was getting obvious or anything, it’s just that she’s good at telling this sort of stuff _and told him it was okay, she wouldn’t tell anyone, but_ it was okay._

Well, shit, Bev, look at Richie now, how’s that for not being obvious?

“Hey, you know that stupid fortune cookie,” Richie says, unthinking, “I didn’t remember them being so fucking accurate.”

“What d’you mean?” Eddie frowns, squints like he’s the one who should be wearing glasses, “mine was some corny shit about nature, love, and patience being the best medicine, which is bullshit, you should always go to a hospital to get a real doctor with real medicine–”

“I’m trying to make a point here,” he interrupts him, waving the piece of paper in Eddie’s face.

“Well,” Eddie bats his hands away with a scowl, “get to the fucking point, then, I’m just saying those things are dangerous, what if people decide to take them seriously–”

“I’ll get to the point if you let me fucking finish, Christ, and I’m trying to follow their stupid advice, so, you know–”

“Why? Why would you do that? You’re the one always making fun of them–”

_“Because– _okay, look, I have a point here, okay! It’s not my fault yours was some dumb fucking inspirational quote–”

“All fortune cookies are dumb inspiration quotes, that’s like the whole fucking _point,_ Richie–”

“Well, that’s not _my_ point, so there you go–”

“Oh, _excuse me,_ then, what’s your fucking point–”

_“My point is that I’m in love with you, asshole!”_

_“That’s what I_– uh,” Eddie stops midsentence like Richie’s words only now reached him, and Richie freezes, realizes there’s no going back now, he can’t take it back, not even if he wanted to, this is it, the truth is out, and _he _is out, and this is the most nerve-wrecking thing he’s ever done, and– “well, you could have lead with that,” says Eddie and _kisses him._

It’s a little awkward because Richie is still behind the bar and there’s a whole counter between them, but Richie is kissing Eddie and he’s dreamed about this for 30 fucking years without even knowing, and maybe this makes him a bad person, but he wouldn’t change a fucking thing– _not Pennywise, not the horror, not the fear_– not when all that brought him here, to _Eddie._

And it’s not at all how he had imagined this would go– it’s_ better _because it’s _real._


	2. Bill POV

_Bill looks at the window shop and sees them all like he remembers– just kids, together with their bikes under the scalding summer sun, Stan begrudgingly amused and Eddie at Richie’s side. The reflection is crystal clear and Bill is exhausted, worn out thin, and at that moment he misses Stan and Eddie so fiercely, it aches, a familiar hollow hurt that settles right beside the one he’s been carrying since he was thirteen years old, and when is that clown going to stop taking the people he loves away from him? _

_The reflection is still there, in the glass, and Bill smiles sadly, filled with nostalgia, and– _

*

And wakes up on his bed in the Inn, heart racing and chest heaving. The sun is shining through the curtains and he can hear the sounds of people downstairs, Bev maybe, and Ben? 

Either way, Bill takes a moment to collect himself, shake off the last drags of his nightmare. Jesus, it had all felt so real, the fear, the pain, the goddamn_ grief_– he turns on all the lights in the room. 

_“Fuck,” _he says to all the empty spaces before dragging a hand across his face and stumbling to the small bedroom. The water is cold but Bill splashes it on his face, shuddering, and exhaled heavily. His reflection is pale and sunken in all this artificial light. “It was just a dream,” he leans in the sink, “get a grip.”

The lightbulb above him flickers and Bill hates to admit it startles him into changing clothes and hurrying the hell out of there.

He makes it down the stairs in record time, taking two steps at a time, and the closer he gets to the dining room, the louder it gets. Laughter and bits of conversation drift to the hallway, Richie’s loud voice followed by Bev cackling and Eddie’s outraged answer. 

It’s enough to ground him back to reality. 

Stopping at the doorway, Bill pauses. They’re all already there, eating breakfast, and Bill grins at the controlled chaos. Something shifts inside him, then, like it’s finally sinking in that it’s over. _It’s all really over_. No matter what his fucked-up dream tells him. Eddie is there with Richie– the two of them seems to have finally sorted their shit, _thank god_– and Stan is there poking at his scrambled eggs like he’s not sure that’s really edible. 

“Hey, Bill,” Mike waves at him, grinning, “everything okay? You might wanna hurry if you don’t want Richie to drink all the coffee.”

_“Fuck you, I’m not the one on my eighth cup of coffee, that’s Little Miss Cream and Sugar over there!”_

_“I need the caffeine to survive your jokes, you know that–”_

Bill takes his seat and watches on as Richie and Bev bicker good-naturedly, Eddie and Mike getting inevitably sucked in, and Stan trading an amused look with Ben. 

Yeah, you know what, everything’s fine. 


	3. Bill POV

Bill can’t quite believe how much Derry has changed.****

It’s like everything is colorful now, like a fog has been lifted and everything is clearer, sharper. Like it grew. Like it_ healed_. Like without Pennywise infecting it, Derry is a whole new town.

He remembers that night after they climbed back up the sewers, how the wind had howled and rain had pelted in his window with an almost vengeful strength. Bill had laid awake listening to the storm destroy the city as if scrubbing it clean. A blank slate.

_A new beginning. _

The next day, he had seen the debris and what had been left of the sewers and Neibolt House and the library and so many other places– all swept away by the rain.

Rebuilding everything had been a slow process Bill is only now seeing the finished product.

_“ – don’t you wanna dance, buddy–”_

It stops Bill on his tracks.

That voice–_ it can’t be_– IT’s dead, _they killed IT,_ Mike said so, it’s been 28 years, it’s too late, _they killed IT,_ shit, had they not killed IT?

_The sewer._

Gaping open like a jaw with too many teeth, an open wound in the pavement.

“Bill?” Stan asks and Bill realizes he’s stopped in the middle of the street, a few feet behind the others. They’re all looking concernedly at him like he’s either losing it or something terrible is going to happen and either option is horrible. “Everything alright?”

“Did you hear t-that?” He demands, staring wildly at the dark sewers. It’s not the one by his house, but it’s _a_ sewer, it’s where that fucking clown lives, “I think– i-it came from the sewers–”

“Wait, hang on,” Mike’s raising his hands in a placating gesture but Mike doesn’t understand, did none of them hear that? “What did you hear?”

“Th-the clown–_ IT,_ I heard _IT,”_ Bill shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, “just now, something about dancing–”

_“Oh fuck,” _Richie curses, face immediately falling into the guiltiest look Bill’s seen on him, and chuckles uneasily, “shit, man, I’m sorry, fuck, I think– I’m pretty sure you heard _me?_ I was telling Eddie, I was telling him about this asshole in a nightclub, and–_ shit, _did it really sound– I mean, he _was_ a fucking clown, I guess, but I didn’t think–”

“You never had a fucking thought in your life,” Eddie cuts in, glaring at Richie in that begrudgingly fond way of his, “and you know it. That story wasn’t even funny, _Jesus.”_

“Yes, it was! You’re a fucking_ liar!”_

Bev frowns at them for a moment longer while Ben is making a face, and Bill can see how she’s thinking the same as him, grateful at how little those two have changed. It helps ground them, Bill thinks, knowing they can always count on Richie and Eddie to be _Richie-and-Eddie. _

“You good?” Stan asks again, bumping shoulders with him, “it’s okay if you’re not, just so you know. This whole thing is a little screwed up and being here _definitely _doesn’t help.”

“Yeah,” Bill shrugs, swallowing thickly, “I think– I’ll be fi-fine.”

Stan nods thoughtfully. “Okay. Ready to go see how Richie’s full of shit about this restaurant downtown?”

“Bet it never even existed,” he chuckles, feeling slowly better now that the fear is being quietly replaced with the familiar exasperation at Richie’s jokes. 

Bill smiles. 

Derry is a very different place from twenty-eight years ago and there are no _maybe_s about it– they’re all better for it.


	4. Richie POV

It’s legit a miracle this place is still standing, or perhaps not a miracle, but just further proof Ben is a goddamn good architect.

Whatever the reason, Richie looks around their old clubhouse with fond nostalgia, that awful feeling those days are gone, but softened by the presence of everyone there with him. It’s still as dusty and dirty as he remembers, with added cobwebs in the walls and beams– which reminds him: “hey, Stan, you still got those shower caps? Wouldn’t want any spiders to crawl up your hair.”

“I know you’re joking,” Stan scowls briefly before waving an old unopened packet of those things he found in the table with a triumphant grin, “but I’m not going to help you when they get tangled on your rat’s nest.”

Richie has the perfect comeback for that, he does, but his attention span doesn’t last that long and something else catches his attention, demands he looks at it instead.

Their old hammock, still hanging between the walls.

He smiles, snorting at the memories of his stupid grabs for attention in that thing, hogging it on purpose, just to have Eddie climbing in with him, and then agonizing over his every little movement. It had felt very dangerous being so close to Eddie, the line had felt too blurred when Eddie poked at his glasses and Richie rested a hand on his ankle, and they both refused to move, to get out.

Looking back on it, he wonders if any of the others had picked up on it, had noticed how Richie would only argue half-heartedly for the sake of arguing when it was anyone else fighting for the hammock, if that’s why they all never warned them about the ten minutes rule.

Okay, no, maybe that last one was because this is definitely structurally unsafe. These walls were not made to hold that kind of weight.

“You know,” Eddie says, stopping at his side. He’s smiling a little too, wistful and wry, almost amused as he continues, “you were such a pain in the ass hogging this thing.”

Richie shrugs. He’s not wrong. “You could’ve knocked me out of it, though.”

“That’s true,” he looks at Richie, still smiling in that way that makes Richie just stop breathing at all, “but I’d always rather climb in with you.”

“Fuck you, you can’t say shit like that,” Richie huffs, throwing his hands up and pretending this isn’t like, exactly what thirteen-years-old him had dreamed about, “you’re killing me here, Eds,  _ killing  _ me!”

Eddie, the bastard, only laughs and tangles their fingers, and Richie doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this. “What, I can’t fucking say I had a crush on you?”

And Richie, because some things should never change, swallows the words that are threatening to spill too soon, way too soon, even though they feel twenty-eight years too late, and notices the opening Eddie left for him, hook, line, and sinker. “You had a crush on me?” he teases, tugging at his hand, “that’s so embarrassing, babe.”

Like clockwork, Eddie rolls his eyes, even as the corners of his mouth twitches into a grin. “We’re _dating, _Richie_. _And so did you, by the way. You’re holding my hand _right now.”_

“Still,” he snickers, squeezing Eddie’s hand when he tries to pull away. Eddie’s scowling and it’s as adorable as his pouting, and Richie isn’t even embarrassed by how much he loves it, loves _Eddie._

They’re not alone in the clubhouse, though, and Bev’s voice soon rings across the room, too amused. “I really don’t know why I thought they’d be less obnoxious now.”

“Don’t say that,” Mike joins, grinning, “they’ll take that as a dare.”

For a whole minute, Richie waits for the shame to come. That flushed embarrassment, the overwhelming fear, that little voice in the back of his head chanting  _ they know they know they know  _ but– there’s nothing. Because yeah, they do know, they all know and the world hasn’t ended. Richie’s in love with Eddie and Eddie is in love with Richie, and everyone knows, and  _ that’s okay.  _

For the first time in Derry, Maine, this feels okay.

“You know what,” Richie says, letting the peace wash over him, “challenged fucking accepted, losers,” and pulls Eddie into a kiss. 

There are catcalls and whistles, and Eddie is laughing into the kiss, but he’s holding on to Richie like Richie’s holding on to him, and it feels incredibly right to be this happy here, in their old clubhouse with laughter-soaked walls.


	5. Richie POV

_ “Run this by me one more time, why are we doing this?” _

See, Richie's asking because he's not sure a _carnival_ is the sort of place he'd like to be right now. Or, you know, _ever._

“Exposure therapy?” Bev suggests with a hopeful shrug. 

“I mean,” Eddie snorts, frowning at the bright colorful lights, “we all _do_ need therapy, but I'm not sure a licensed professional would approve of this.”

“Man,” Ben commiserates, looking sadly at the Ferris wheel, “can't believe that clown ruined this for us.”

“Let the record show, I still think this is a bad idea,” Stan huffs.

“We could still go back to my place and get wasted?” suggests Mike, and man, that sounds like a way better idea.

“We c-came all this way,” Bill argues, sounding either stubborn or determined, Richie cant tell the difference, “we can't g-go back now.”

“Dude, this is like, two blocks away from the townhouse,” he rolls his eyes, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, “it's really not that far.”

Bill doesn’t dignify that with an answer, not that Richie had expected him to, what with the way he’s staring at those neon signs like Pennywise has personally put them there overnight. And it’s not even like Richie can blame him, really, when this fucking cheerful music is giving him the creeps, reminding him too much of the sewers and that goddamn clown dancing in its own fucking circus.

A shudder runs down his spine and Richie shakes his head, feels Eddie brush his fingers against his, eyebrows raised in a silent  _ are you okay?  _ They don’t hold hands because while it’s not the 80s anymore, a couple got beaten up just two weeks before right here, and honestly, they’ve gotten enough fight to last for a lifetime already. It sucks and it reminds Richie why he had been so far up in the closet, he’d been living in fucking  _ Narnia _ , and any other time, any other day, he’d be uncomfortable as shit, but Eddie’s here, close enough he can smell his cologne, hands brushing as they walk, and that’s– well, it’s not  _ okay,  _ but it’s not so bad. Once they’re out of Bumfuck, Nowhere, _it’ll be better._

There’ll be better days, an infinite number of them.

“Okay,” he says loudly, clapping his hand in forced excitement, “are we gonna stand here like creeps until someone calls the cops on us or are we gonna freaking do this?”

“Richie’s right,” Bill concedes, then immediately makes a face, “c-can’t believe I’ve just said that.”

“Huh, it happens once in a while,” Eddie shrugs, “even a broken clock is right twice a day, you know.”

“Why do you hurt me so?” He asks dramatically, wiping fake tears from under his glasses and swooning into Bev’s arms. She laughs, looping her arms around his, fondly says, “beep beep, Richie.”

They move as a group like a pack of gazelles or something, and that must be weird as fuck to an outsider view, but hey, they ain’t about to give up the whole safety in numbers shtick, nossir. Around them, the air smells like cotton candy and buttery popcorn, children run past them squealing and giggling, tired parents dragging themselves after, and the bright lights paint everything in red and white and blue.

Technically, it’s pretty.

_ Theoretically,  _ it’s pretty whimsy. 

By all means, there’s nothing particularly off about it.

Still, Richie can’t help feeling uneasy about the entire thing. Eddie’s sticking close to him, fidgety and jumpy, and Ben seems to be about to crush Bev’s fingers. Not even Mike, the one who stayed, who lived his whole life in this place, is looking too happy to be there, sandwiched between Bill and Stan.

_ Jesus Christ,  _ they must be looking so fucking shady, they’re gonna end up being kicked out soon.

“We should, uh,” Ben clears his throat, eyes glancing around nervously, “check out at least one of the rides. Right?”

“Righty-O, Benny Boy,” Richie slips into one of his Voices not to draw attention to his own anxiety, “how about the funhouse? Some wacky mirror fun?”

And you know, he’s sure, Richie was so sure,  _ oh man,  _ he had been  _ so sure  _ he hadn’t said anything wrong this time, no stuffing his foot in his mouth, just some stupid impression of a bad Australian accent from a dude he saw in Cali once, but he still feels stupidly guilty when Bill chokes on his Coke.

_ “No,”  _ Bill hisses so vehemently, eyes going wide and furious, like it triggered his flight or fight response and boy, did he choose fight. “No, _no one’s g-going in there,_ absolutely not! _Promise me,”_ he latches onto Richie’s arms, glaring and so goddamn scared at the same time, Richie doesn’t even have to ask to know that this has something to do with Bill’s nightmare, with  _ IT.  _ Nothing causes a reaction like thinking about Pennywise. “Promise me, you’re not g-gonna go there, Richie– _guys, we can’t, it’s_– just, everyone, p-promise me, alright?”

“Okay, okay,” Stan pries Bill away gently, murmuring assurances in that quiet way of his, and they all trade a determined look. It’s not like anyone was truly interested in some dumb mirrors anyway. “No funhouse, we promise, Bill. _Okay?_ See, we’re all still here.”

“Sorry,” Bill rubs at his eyes, runs a hand through his hair, and  _ damn,  _ he looks tired, _“I’m sorry,_ I didn’t mean to freak out.”

“It’s cool, man,” Mike rests a comforting hand on his shoulder, warm with understanding, “nothing to be sorry for. How about some food instead?”

“Do you even– _food!_ _In this place!”_ Eddie huffs, someplace between indignant and alarmed, cheeks puffed adorably, “did they even have a healthy inspection? Did you see how many pigeons were here this afternoon? Do you  _ want  _ food poisoning, Mike? Is that it? You know what else you can get from contaminated food? Salmonella.  _ Salmonella _ , Mike. Do you want all these years of not eating cookie dough go to waste?”

Heart swelling and chest feeling too small to contain all the unbridled affection that bubbles, Richie really is a goner. Look at him, it’s Eddie’s time to shine, and if Richie didn't know any better, he’d say Mike knew exactly what he had been doing.

“The man makes a compelling argument, Mikey,” Richie grins, delighted, and slings an arm over Eddie’s shoulder. It earns a half-hearted scowl like Eddie wants to be mad, but really  _ can’t.  _ “Think about the cookie dough you have most definitely not been eating!”

“That’s– I really don’t like the way you said that,” Eddie shakes his head, pained, “I know what you’re implying, and it’s distressing.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Richie sees Bill smile, small and tentative, and thinks Mike just might be a clever bastard after all. Either way, if it means he gets to tease Eddie into looking unfairly adorable ruffled, well– Richie’s more than happy to oblige.


	6. Bill POV

“Wait,” Bill says, momentarily seized with too much desperate panic not to freeze up. For a second, he forgets what’s dream and what’s memory and what’s  _ now.  _ He reacts before he thinks, hands like a vice on Eddie’s wrist and Stan’s elbow. 

In front of them, traffic keeps on like usual. “Sorry, I thought–- n-nevermind.”

“Are you alright?” Bev asks carefully, trading a guarded look with Mike that Bill knows means he lost his cool one too many times now. Of course everyone’s noticing. 

“F-Fine,” he mutters, letting go abruptly and stuffing his hands on the pockets of his jacket, tucked away safely not to make another scene. His nightmares are his own, Bill doesn’t need them spreading into reality, into anyone else’s mind. “Just thought I’d seen a c-car.”

It’s a flimsy excuse and he knows no one’s buying it, but he must look really pitiful if even Richie’s unwilling to call him on his bullshit. But Bill can’t help it, really. There’s this awful itch on his mind, this feeling every time he thinks about that nightmare– sometimes, it feels like they’re just living on borrowed time, like the universe might realize its mistake and come collect Eddie and Stan away. 

So Bill worries.

He checks the street a dozen times before crossing and he walks close enough that his shoulders brush Stan’s. He tells Richie to keep an eye on Eddie and he keeps an eye on Stan himself. Sometimes, the light hits Stan’s wrists in an angle and Bill thinks he sees scars there, violently red, and he has to deliberately stop himself from checking.

The others have all noticed by now. Paranoia isn’t a strange look on him, Bill remembers that now, but it’s never skyrocketed like this. They probably think it’s  _ concerning  _ because they’re adults now and they can't say shit like  _ Bill’s going batshit crazy  _ anymore.

Not that– Bill’s not sure that would be too far from the truth.

“You okay, man?” Stan asks after they’ve crossed the street and he’s politely not rubbing at his arm, where Bill had probably bruised him, like Eddie’s doing a few feet away. “You look–  _ tired.” _

Bill can’t help snorting. “Thanks, that’s g-generous.”

“I’m a generous person,” he replies mildly, expression still blandly devoid of anything that might’ve tipped off Bill to what he’s thinking. “But seriously,  _ are  _ you okay?”

Lying is a possibility here. Bill could look at Stan in the eye and tell him  _ everything’s fine _ , he  _ could, _ he already did it once, he told Audra  _ everything was fine, he just had to go back home.  _ He told her _ he’d be back soon.  _ So yes, Bill  _ could  _ lie, but– it doesn’t sit right with him. Aren’t they all here because of him? In the end, it all boils down to: if Bill hadn’t faked being sick that one morning 28 years ago, things would have turned out very differently.

“Hey, stop that,” Stan shakes him a little and there it is again, the light glinting off imaginary wounds, and Bill is really  _ this  _ close to sitting him down and wrapping him in gauze  _ just in case.  _ “You’ve got your guilty face on, it’s worse than your  _ I haven’t slept in a week  _ one and that’s saying a lot.”

“Jeez, w-what happened to being generous?” Bill jokes weakly, knows it’s falling flat at their feet, and drags a hand over his face. “Nothing’s wrong,” he finally settles on, not a lie, not the whole truth.

Stan studies him carefully– everyone’s always a shade of  _ careful  _ with him lately. “But?”

“But my nightmare feels a bit t-too real sometimes,” he admits, the words leaving him like air out of a balloon, and Bill exhales, deflates, lets Stan bump against him as if that is the only thing keeping him upright. “I’m sorry.”

Neither of them says anything else as Stan mulls over his confession, face scrunched in concentration. This time, when sunlight hits, there’s just Stan, no shimmering images overlapping. “Don’t be,” he tells him with surprising certainty, “it’s not your fault.”

And goddamn, that’s such a broad expression but the way he says it sounds like he means it that way,  _ broadly.  _ An encompassing statement that’s supposed to take up all the space between them. It shouldn’t help, by all means, Bill is made of half grief and half guilty, and yet.

And yet, here Bill is,  _ breathing.  _

“T-thanks,” he swallows thickly, vividly aware his hands are shaking in his pockets.

Stan claps a hand on his shoulder, warm and alive, heartbeat pulsing under his skin. “I mean it, Bill. You should talk to someone about this, it doesn’t have to be me, but I’d listen.”

Somewhere between the hardware store and crossing into Main Street, they’ve fallen behind, the others walking nearly half a block ahead, and Bill finds he doesn’t mind this. It’s nice, glancing up and seeing all of them there, together– Richie with his arms slung over both Eddie and Bev, Ben holding her hand, Mike laughing, head thrown back. And Stan there, at his side. 

There’s safety in numbers, yes, but in Bill’s experience, there’s peace.

He smiles. “I think I’d like that.”


	7. Bill POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nightmares; balloons; healing takes time

The nightmares don't stop.

Not that Bill had expected them to, truthfully. He's not sure if the others are as plagued as he is, if they, too, wake up in cold sweat like him, breath sticking to his throat and a grief so large, it threatens to crack his bones right down in a half, if they close their eyes and see blood-stained windows into things that could so easily have happened Bill isn’t sure if they didn’t. 

In any case, Bill isn’t sure of much these days, but he's fairly certain they all got enough on their plates to excuse any nightmares from here on. 

So yeah,  _ that fucking clown  _ is still there sometimes in his dreams, and maybe it's this town that's still got some lingering stench that permeates everything, but at least, here, in this run-down townhouse suspiciously empty of people, Bill can slip to the hallway, shaking hands and all, and breathe in the silence.

No one’s screaming. No one’s dying. No one’s dead.

If he goes really quiet, Bill can hear soft talking coming from Richie’s room and the TV playing low from Bev’s. Stan’s room is just beside his and Bill tells himself he would’ve heard if something had happened. The walls are too thin not to. Mike isn’t here, but his phones still shows a tweet from him barely ten minutes ago, so he couldn’t be dying and tweeting at the same time, Bill doesn’t think. Richie, maybe, but not Mike.

Everything’s fine.

Everyone’s fine.

Bill allows himself a smile.

The window seat at the end of the hall is more comfortable than his bed, makes him feel less claustrophobic, with the moon shining high in the sky. Everything’s silvery when the moon is full like this, gleaming. Bill stares outside and lets the cold air in, soothing his feverish skin. Somehow, this is already better than it was– the other night, it took him nearly half an hour to stop hyperventilating.

He watches the trees, the sky, the stars, so much brighter than London or even California, and at the edge of the town, the carnival bubbles with colors, even this late at night, a red balloon trekking across the dark blue–

_ “Fuck,”  _ Bill croaks, eyes fixed on the balloon.  _ This isn’t happening.  _ His heart picks up speed in a mad burst of adrenaline that leaves him shaking even further and Bill should’ve known better, should’ve been expecting this, of course, it wouldn’t be over, of course, that  _ goddamn  _ clown would never let them out of his claws, no, IT only lengthened the leash, let them think they were safe– IT was only playing with its food, as always. “Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck–” _

The balloon is floating outside and he thinks he might be raising his voice, but Bill is just trying to get his breathing under control again,  _ get a fucking grip,  _ before Pennywise slithers from the pipes or some shit, Bill needs to wake up the others, warn them, get them to run away while they still can, he needs to figure all of this out, needs to kill this clown, they’re all depending on him, so if Bill could just fucking  _ breathe– _

_ “Bill?”  _ It’s Stan, crouching in front of him, and Bill latches on his arm, pointing at the window where the goddamn balloon is still there, still floating aimlessly, mocking him, “what’s wrong, buddy? Bill? Can you hear me? Bill?”

Can’t he see? Isn’t he seeing that fucking–

“Is it the balloon?” Stan asks, hands firmly on Bill’s shoulder, and behind him, Bill sees Richie and Eddie stumbling out of their room at the same time Bev and Ben rush out of theirs. They all crowd around him and it should be uncomfortable, trapping, but instead– instead it just makes him feel safe.

“What’s happening?” Richie sounds bewildered, eyes darting around until he finds the window, “oh, shit.”

“Bill?” Bev talks quietly, crouching beside Stan, keeps her distance, “everything’s fine, okay?”

“IT’s b-back,” Bill gasps, shaking his head, “l-look, the red b-balloon–”

“Bill, hey,  _ hey,”  _ Stan says, squeezing his shoulder to get his attention, “it’s fine, it’s just the fair, look– I need you to look out the window, can you do that?”

“Come on, Big Bill,” Eddie cheers him on, “it’s fine, just take a look yourself.”

With shallow breaths, Bill nods shakily, turning around slowly afraid of what he might see, almost expecting to see that grinning face with too many rows of teeth, but–

It’s just the fair.

The fair releasing hundreds of balloons into the night sky while festive music plays loudly in the background. There’s some sort of show happening, it seems.

It all clicks on his head, the sharp reality of his situation dawning on him between one blink and the next, leaving him trembling with leftover adrenaline. His anxiety doesn’t dissipate all at once, it lingers in his labored breathing, stays on the clammy iciness of his skin, and shame fills all the space it doesn’t occupy.

“S-sorry,” he tries to say, choking on the word, “I didn’t mean to–  _ sorry.” _

“Bill,” Ben is frowning, his eyes still kind, “there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“Another nightmare?” Stan guesses, lips pressed into a thin line, “you could’ve come to us, you know.”

“Door’s unlocked, man,” Richie agrees, uncharacteristically serious, “anytime.”

“When are you going to get it through that thick head of yours,” Bev sighs heavily, running a hand through her hair, “that we’re all in this together? Strength in numbers, dumbass.”

Bill means to remind them this isn’t a burden they have to carry, some baggages are just meant for one. His mind is still foggy, though, blurred, and he blinks, and blinks, and blinks. He breathes. 

He lives on for the next tick of the clock, and then another, and another, and the world still doesn’t end.

His phone chirps with a new notification and it’s Mike tweeting again about some dumb fucking BuzzFeed quiz, and Bill laughs. It’s not easy to survive, he thinks, and it’s even harder to  _ live,  _ and maybe there’s nothing inherently brave about acting out in desperation, but– they should get to be okay. 

After everything, there should be peace.

“Thank you,” he says, and means it wholeheartedly, and then, he adds truthfully, “I don’t w-want to be alone.”

Stan smiles understandingly.

“Neither do I, actually,” Eddie half-shrugs, scratching the back of his neck self-consciously, “no offense, but all those balloons– fucking creepy.”

“It’s the music, man,” Richie nods, pulling him closer, “it freaks me out.”

“Kinda feels like IT’s gonna appear, doesn’t it?” Ben murmurs, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly, “do that stupid dance.”

Bev shudders, curling around his arm. “That settles it, then,” she says fiercely, “no one’s gonna be alone tonight.”

“Sleepover?” Stan asks, mouth curling into a wry smile, amused, “we should probably call Mike if we’re doing this.”

Something warm and soft unfurls on his chest, and Bill regards the moon one last time with clear eyes before following his friends back to his room, pillows and mattresses being hauled in after. It’s perhaps a bit childish, a bit indulgent, but  _ okay  _ is a four-letter word anyway– like  _ love,  _ like  _ hope,  _ like  _ life.  _


	8. Bill POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> conversations in a graveyard

It's on a sunny day with a cloudless sky that Bill walks down the stone path leading to a lonely grave above a coffin that should never have been that small. 

There are no flowers, not even wilting ones. Just dirt and leaves and dust. No one's been here in decades. His–  _ their  _ parents are buried in a cemetery in California.

Here, forgotten is Derry, Georgie is alone. 

There are too many things Bill wants to say, the words all crowd on his mouth, tear at his throat, knocking against his teeth, but they all feel inadequate, awkward,  _ useless.  _

_ Sorry  _ doesn't begin to cover it. 

He’d have to say it over and over and over and it’d lose any meaning before it could hope to be anywhere near enough. 

“Georgie,” he whispers, trailing a careful hand over the stone, fingers following the carved name. 

How could he forget? 

Before he can figure out what to say next, there's the crunching of leaves behind him, and Bill doesn't have to turn around to know these footsteps. 

Bev is the one stepping forward to lay the flowers down. They're a pretty thing, the white of the lilies and the pink of the carnations standing out starkly against the grey tones. Georgie would’ve liked it, he thinks, all the colors. 

Bill hears a sigh behind him.  _ Stan,  _ he guesses. “When are you going to understand,” Stan says quietly, sidling up to his other side, “you don’t have to do everything alone?”

The others approach him finally, silently, a silent support spread out among them. Seven people looking down at Georgie’s grave. “Not everything,” Bill murmurs back.  _ Just this, just what’s my fault. _

“I can see you’re making some mental gymnastics right now,” he casts him a sideways glance, “to somehow pin all this on you.”

Mike is at Stan’s other side, shaking his head. “This isn’t your fault, Bill. How could this ever be your fault?”

Something shifts inside Bill, fragile and tender, a wound reopening, raw. 27 seven years of guilt are sloshing inside him, a dam that’s broken this morning and threatened to drown him completely. That rainy morning had been fresh in his mind after the nightmare, in all its detail. A high-definition movie. 

“Because,” Bill says without meaning to. It tumbles out of his lips hurriedly, awkwardly, painfully, “if I-I hadn’t– that morning, he asked me to p-play with him. I told him I was sick–  _ I lied.” _

A hand rests warmly on his shoulder. “You were a kid,” Stan points out, “no one’s to blame but that goddamn clown.”

“If I hadn’t lied–”

“Then maybe you both would be dead now,” Bev cuts in, blunt and gentle at the same time like only she knows how to be, “maybe all of us and another half of the town, too.”

“It’s not your fault,” Mike repeats, “it’s Pennywise’s.”

“That fucking clown,” Richie grumbles and out of the corner of his eyes, Bill sees Eddie reach for his hand. 

_“That fucking clown,”_ Bill echoes and it comes out nearly as a snort. Stan squeezes his shoulder.  _ It’s not your fault.  _ He’s not sure– maybe in a while, maybe when this isn’t all rattling in his head, present and past juxtaposed in two images that never quite match. Maybe then, he’ll believe it. At the very least, speaking out loud, it let the light in. That’s how you start to heal, he figures.

“Come on,” Stan squeezes his shoulder again, “we’ll wait for you in the car. Take your time.”

“Not too much time,” Richie adds, “Eddie’s hungry.”

“No, I’m fucking not,” Eddie bristles, tugging at his arm as they continue to bicker.

“Hey,” Mike claps him in the back, a comforting reminder, “just don’t forget, we’ll always be here.”

Bill breathes in sharply, the cold air stinging his lungs. Then, he begins telling Georgie all that he’s missed, they have a lot to catch up.

**Author's Note:**

> and hey, if you liked it, you can send me prompts or come cry with me about these Losers in [my tumblr. ](https://nancy-wheels.tumblr.com)


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